


The dog is a gentleman.

by orange_crushed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of all things living<br/>I'd be a sweet potato,<br/>fresh dug up."<br/>-Shinkichi Takahashi</p>
            </blockquote>





	The dog is a gentleman.

"Simplicity," says Sirius. A chunk of mud falls out of his hair and onto his feet. He shakes his shoulders and more chunks slide off and spray across the floor. He smells like the lake, for obvious reasons. "That's what I like about it."

Remus is sitting on the opposite side of the room, wary and ready to bolt. Sirius has been known to distribute hugs in this state, especially to people who regularly wear clean shirts. He watches Sirius peel off his filthy jumper and looks away for a second as the undershirt follows. There are patches of skin on his stomach and back that aren't covered in muck, and they are smooth and fine like the shell of an egg. He's amazed that Sirius remembers the idle question he was asked five hours ago. "Being a dog, it's like peeling all this off." Sirius gestures at the pile on the floor, and Remus cracks a grin.

"I was right," he says. "You lied about your public nudity phase being over. I should warn the second-years."

"Warn them about the shallows, while you're at it." Sirius rolls up his trouser leg to look at a long, thin scratch already crusting over. "Those little trident thingies look like toys, but their sting's real enough. They were aiming for my tackle but they couldn't reach."

"Your tack-" Remus puts a hand to his forehead. "Okay. Of course you had a good reason for trespassing on their territory."

"It'd just rained." Sirius looks at him tenderly, as if he was suffering from a fatal case of dullness and decrepitude. Remus fights the urge to scowl or scold him or furrow his brow. Merlin, he is ancient and horrible. "I fancied a swim anyway. Didn't you see all that lovely mud ? It was begging to be rolled in. And I'm highly qualified."

"You're highly- Binn's knickers, you stink!" James hollers, from the doorway. "You should be scrubbed and hung out to dry. Maybe beaten on a rock, the old ways are best."

"I keep saying that," says Remus.

"Try it, Jamiekins." Sirius takes a slippery step forward, wand in hand. "I've been itching for a reason to die your hair." There is a tense moment between the two of them while Remus rolls his eyes and tries to remember the last time a weekend didn't end with the lavish distribution of detentions.

"Whoo, what died ?" says Peter, coming up the stairwell. "Something smells worse than _Sirius_."

 

 

Later, much later; after Sirius has been held down under the faucet and smothered in lavendar-scented soap and James has been kicked wetly in the stomach; Remus is settling down in dry clothes with his transfiguration homework. It's only been five minutes when Sirius leans across the bottom of the bed with a curious expression.

"I can catch you up," he says, gesturing at the text. "Trust me, I know that one back to front. Come up to the tower."

"Sirius-"

"Please," he says, and that unexpected word is so bare in front of him that Remus is almost embarassed to hear it.

"Your whims are my distraction," he says, long-suffering, and follows him up. On the roof all is quiet, quiet but for the faint hooting of the owls on their perches and the gentle shushing sound of the lake far below. It is late spring and the birds are back but sleeping, buds and flowers jamming themselves out into the air in fierce hope. Sirius stands at the edge with his hands spread out on the flat stone.

"Close your eyes," he says, and tugs on Remus's sleeve. "Stand here and shut your eyes." He does it without thinking, and Sirius's hand is warm and solid over his wrist. He inhales the night air, smelling like the wet skin of green leaves, thin and cool and new. The wind at the top moves like a current around them, up his shirtsleeves and down his collar and across his ears. Remus breathes deeper and more slowly, pacing his heart. It patters against his ribs. Sirius hasn't moved his hand. "That's what it's like," he says, so softly that Remus can barely hear him. "But you already knew. You can smell it, can't you ? The air and the lake and everything, how fresh it is- how good." Sirius rubs a small circle on his wrist and Remus's breath hitches. He can't know. "Not everyone can, but you do. You're the only one who knows what it's like."

"Yes," says Remus. "I do know."

They stand like that in the dark, listening to the sound of the castle settling, the last torches burning themselves out. "Thank you," says Remus, finally. He slips his wrist up through Sirius's grip, to fit their fingers together and squeeze before letting go. Sirius is perfectly still against him. "For all of it. But for that, too. You could've been an otter. A parrot. A giant seal."

"A walrus, with tusks."

"A newt."

"Don't hurt my feelings," Sirius says, mock-affronted with his other hand over his heart. "Say an eagle or a polar bear or something. Have a bit of decency."

"A majestic moose," says Remus, and they both crack up. "But really," he says, more softly. "Thank you."

"Is that it ?" Sirius asks, suddenly. "I mean, it's lovely, thank you is fine, and of course you're welcome." He leans over and his eyes are impossibly dark, like the empty half of the departing moon. "But is that it ? Is that everything ?" The pulse in his throat leaps nervously and Remus wonders if he is losing his mind. Sirius has never looked at him like this; but then, he is always looking away.

"No," he says. Sirius is starting to smile. Speaking now is like dipping his feet into deep water. He may never rise. He hopes he doesn't. "No, that's not everything."

"Ah," says Sirius.

 

 

They spend Sunday morning on Remus's bed with Remus's books and Sirius's Quidditch World Weekly. James and Peter go down to breakfast and off to practice with strange matching expressions and an incomprehensible warning to "keep whatever it is to themselves, and such, not that we're, let's go Peter, we'll be late." Sirius ignores them and Remus blushes into page thirty-nine of his magical creatures textbook so deeply that it begins to complain from the heat.

When they are well and truly alone Sirius squishes him with his elbows, yelling steamroller, and Remus jabs his fingers into the offending armpits. "Truce ?" asks Sirius, into his hair.

"Truce."

Sirius kisses him until they're both a bit stupider. They lie side to side in the morning heat of the sun and Remus can feel the weave of the blankets under him and the soft dust settling in the air and Sirius's bony elbows. The stove is humming to itself. His brain has flown away. He has already eaten toast with jam and he will eat more later and he doesn't want anything at all, except for this second to keep ticking on the clock for the rest of his life.

"Simplicity," says Sirius, when he says all that out loud. He sighs and burrows his face deeper into the pillow, itching his nose like the animal he sometimes is. "Now you're catching on."


End file.
